


Paper Hearts

by Kmomodf



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Explicit Sexual Content, Hogwarts Chamber of Secrets, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Horcruxes, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lies, M/M, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Sarcastic Harry, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Tom Riddle's Diary, at least temporarily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2019-11-01 07:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kmomodf/pseuds/Kmomodf
Summary: Just like making sugar cookies for a bake sale and accidently using soy sauce instead of vanilla. It only takes one wrong ingredient/measurement/preptime can absolutely ruin the outcome of a whole batch, even if they come fresh out of the oven looking completely as expected. They match the other cookies that were baked, so there’s no reason to think they’re any different. That is, until someone bites into one. And everything goes wrong.But accidents happen, right?Well, not to Lord Voldemort, they don’t.So, of course, when one did happen, and his first horcrux was just like those sugar cookies: unnoticed. He used too much of the wrong part of his soul- a part that he split in the name of a kill that wasn’t rightfully his. What remained was something very similar to a horcrux, only so much stronger.





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!  
> This is the first fic I've posted in quite awhile, but I do hope you enjoy it just the same!  
> This whole things started as a very in depth discussion about horcruxes and what would actually constitute enough to break apart a soul.  
> Specifically, could Tom really have made a horcrux out of Myrtle's death when it was an accident not even by his own hand? Sure he caused it and felt no remorse, but would that really have been enough to Sever His Soul?  
> Well, here we're operating under the assumption that, no, no it wouldn't. So what would become of that horcrux if it wasn't properly done?
> 
> Please tell me what you think! I'm always eager for feedback. Thanks for reading!

ϟ ϟ ϟ ϟ

It'd been happening again for weeks now. Harry would close his eyes, and, at some point in the night, wake up in a cold sweat with disconnected images fading away in the wake of his consciousness. The dreams were not as vivid as they has been the previous year, and they were a lot harder to recall the next day; the one thing he could ever remember was looking at the ruins of a black journal with an overwhelming feeling of being _trapped_.

What Harry couldn't _quite_ determine, though, was whether these images were slipping through he and Voldemort's connection, or if they were just a side effect of his recent training with Dumbledore.

He was inclined to think the latter since he didn't wake up with his scar burning and there hadn't yet been anything alarming in the dreams themselves. At least… as far as he could tell. He was fairly sure he'd have remembered if there _had_ been anything to worry about.

So, despite Ron and Hermione's protests, Harry elected to keep these new night terrors to himself. After all, there was no reason to trouble Dumbledore with something that was probably just his imagination.

What if the headmaster took it as a sign that Harry wasn't able to handle what they were doing? Or worse, what if he thought Voldemort was spying through him and stopped trusting him altogether?

No, Harry couldn't risk it, not when there was still so much he had to do- more important things than whatever echoes of nightmares were swimming at the edge of his subconscious.

As long as the dreams didn't get any worse, Harry could deal with the cold sweats and lack of sleep. After all, he'd gotten quite used to them during last term.

All it took to get through the day was a cold shower, lots of coffee, and unyielding concentrat-

“Mr. Potter!” Professor Mcgonagall snapped at him, hitting the surface of his desk with her wand for emphasis.

Harry’s eyes shot open (when had they closed?) and he sat up so quickly he nearly tipped his chair back.

“Now that you've _graciously_ rejoined the waking world,” Mcgonagall started scornfully, “would you _kindly_ tell me the two most important rules for cross species transfiguration?”

“Er-” Harry started, taking his mind for some semblance of an answer. He frantically caught Hermione's eye from the desk two rows in front of him. She was slowly moving her lips around the answer. “You need to their... _Latin_ names…? And, um, clear and deliverance? Motions?”

“ _Deliverance_ , Mr. Potter _?_ ”

Hermione sighed and shook her head before silently annunciating the word at an even slower pace.  

“No, no, sorry, I meant _deliberate_ wand movements.” Harry recovered, looking nervously at Mcgonagall. “Er- you see, what I was _trying_ to say was that you have to _deliver_ _deliberate_ wand, uh, wand movements.”

The professor studied the raven haired boy over her glasses, clearly unimpressed. “I do hope you're better at reading your texts than lips, Mr. Potter; I'm afraid you'll find that Miss Granger won't always be there to feed you the answer. And _should_ you feel the urge to doze off in my class again, then you might find yourself waking up as a three-toed newt! Am I understood?”

The class sniggered, but quickly silenced when Mcgonagall's eyes swept over them.

“Yes, professor.” Harry mumbled, averting his eyes to the surface of his desk. “It won't happen again.”

“Quite,” she responded curtly before turning around and continuing the lecture as though nothing happened. Harry had to shove Ron's shoulder to get him to stop laughing under his breath.

After class, Harry was thoroughly berated by Hermione as they made there way to Herbology. The skies were thick and grey, crisp humidity hung like an unspoken threat in the air around them. The paths had been charmed to stay dry from the snow that had been pushed in mounds on the sides as the bitter air nipped at their ears and noses.

“Honestly, Harry,” the girl chided, wrapping her scarf tighter to face, “what's gotten into you? You look like you haven't slept in _days_.”

“I'm _fine_ , Hermione, really.” the raven haired boy replied, annoyed.

She gave him a withering look, “If you were really fine you wouldn't have _fallen asleep_ in Professor Mcgonagall’s class!”

“She's got you there, mate,” Ron nodded, nudging Harry playfully as they walked, “that or you’ve finally gone _absolutely mental_!”

“You haven't been,” Hermione dropped her voice and leaned closer, “having anymore _dreams_ , have you?”

“No I haven't actually,” Harry lied easily, “ _thanks_ for asking.”

“ _Harry_ ,” the witch sighed, gently pulling the other off the path to keep out of earshot, “Ron's told me that you've been waking up at night and you're always up before we are-”

“He did, did he?” he cast his friend a venomous look. “What are you my _monitor_ now?”

“We're just _worried_ , mate.” Ron confessed quietly.

“Well _don't_ be.” Harry snapped. “Just because I'm not sleeping well doesn't mean Voldemort's in my head! Has it occurred to either of you that _maybe_ I'm just stressed?”

Hermione sighed, “Harry-”

“Heya, guys!”

Harry forced out a breath before replying, “Hey, Neville.”

Ron and Hermione were still looking at their friend nervously as they each mumbled their hellos.

“Er, sorry,” Neville started awkwardly, “did I interrupt something?”

“Course not!” Harry smiled, clapping a hand on the taller wizard's shoulder, “We were just heading to class. Care to join us?”

Harry led the way to the greenhouse talking to Neville about the incoming weather; his best friends exchanged exasperated looks before following.

Harry's sleep deprivation wasn't brought up again the rest of the day, sticking instead to lighter topics such as homework and their plans for the Hogsmeade trip coming up in a couple days. Hermione expressed interest in seeing if the bookshop had any new titles in, while Ron couldn't wait to try out the new merchandise the twins had apparently sold to Zonko's. Harry, however, planned on staying at the castle to work more on the task Dumbledore gave him. After that, their table stayed mostly quiet, save for the scratching of quills on parchment.

By the time they all turned in, the dark sky had finally opened up on them. Harry sat in his four poster bed watching the harsh snow stain their usually colorful window as the room slowly filled with the sound of his dorm mates’ steady breathing.

When he was younger, he hated storms in any form- rain, snow, hail, etc. were always welcomed with fresh bruises and sour moods. Primarily, the teen hated them because the weather would trap the Dursleys inside, which meant it was nearly impossible to escape penance for Dudley's boredom. But also, Harry had grown up with the understanding that his parents had been killed driving drunk in a storm. Somehow, the drinking part of the story hadn't sat right with him- the young wizard couldn't buy into it no matter what story was told to support it- but the rest made sense. So, for nearly a decade the boy associated bad weather with sorrow and _pain_.

It had taken a while, but eventually Harry was able to replace his cold, mournful feelings with ones of warm nostalgia- of Hogwarts, of staying up late in the common room, lights strewn around the snow powdered trees, practicing repelling charms for quidditch.

And on the somewhat rare occasion Harry was able to sit alone in the dark just _listening_ to a stormy night- from the pattering on the window, to the subtle sound of wind shaking the roof- he had a chance to really clear his mind of everything it was drowning in. This stormy night was no exception.

Through the constant tapping of heavy, what now appeared to be sleet and the low rumble of dark clouds, Harry thought about his mission with Slughorn and how badly he’d botched it. He'd never been good at manipulating people- charming them into doing what he asked. He was used to being disliked, to disregarding the image expected of him in favor of simply being who he was. It was a survival tactic he'd picked up from his life on Privet Drive where nothing he did could change his relatives’ minds, so why bother being anything but himself?

But just this _once_ Harry wished he could change that- that he could be as charming and clever as the young Tom Riddle he'd seen in the pensive. If he could have chosen what abilities Voldemort passed to him, _that_ would certainly have been more helpful than random surges of bloodlust. Not that he’d tell anyone that, of course. He could already imagine the horrified and slightly sick expressions that would be painted on Ron and Hermione’s faces.

Harry smiled a little at that thought- how _priceless_ their responses would be. It would serve them right for being so smothering. Not that their intentions weren’t well placed, and Harry did recognize how lucky he was to have people in his life who _did_ actually worry for him, but still, at times their concern was overwhelming.

Often it felt as though they didn’t _believe_ him when he told him how he was feeling, which, if he thought about it, was valid. Even though he hated to admit it, Harry wasn’t the best at sharing his emotions, instead shouldering them so as not to burden anyone else. He didn’t like talking about things- didn’t really know _how_ . So, yes, the young wizard could understand where his friend’s reluctance laid, but, that didn’t mean they had to read into _every_ little thing he did. After all, sometimes a dream was just a dream.

Sirius had always been good at that, though- at showing Harry that he cared and would always be there if he wanted to share anything without being overbearing. He was mindful of the teen’s shortcomings, but never made him feel like a child for them. And Harry _missed_ that. He missed that and everything else he took for granted.

But mostly, he missed his Godfather, the man. Who loved- who _smiled_ \- despite every horror done to him, who had deserved so _so_ much more out of life than he was thrown. Sirius Black, the man who died needlessly out of Harry’s own naivety.

And there it was, the inevitable _pain_ his solitude brought to the surface, perhaps amplified somewhat from the gloom of the midnight storm.

Harry took a deep breath, pulling his knees closer to his chest and hiding his face in his arms. If he didn’t get that memory from Slughorn, all of this pain, this _suffering_ may have been for nothing at all.

* * *

 

 _He was cold._ _So_ _cold. His core was ice and his body pulsing wisps of bitter fog- from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He felt…_

 _Well, to be honest, he didn’t_ _know_ _how he felt._

 _Confused, anxious, empty, and again,_ _so_ _cold_ _._

 _When he opened his eyes, he was met with arched ceilings that seemed to go on forever into darkness. Constant dripping could be heard inconsistently echoing through the large space he seemed to be in. The teen sat up slowly, looking curiously at the smooth dark green tile he’d been lying on. It looked familiar somehow, but before he could place it, he watched a thick drop of water falling from the ceiling go directly_ _through_ _his hand. The boy’s eyes widened, uncertainty taking over his mind as he quickly scrambled to his feet. He held both hands in front of him, studying them intently. Fingertips touched gingerly together- the feeling dull, delayed- and when he turned them toward the dim light at his side, he could easily see the cold outlines of white stone through them. He brought those strange hand to his face like smoke to a mirror._

_Panic gripped his icy core like a vice, and the boy scrambled toward the source of the cold, damp light. There was a dark pool at the edge of the dark emerald tile, surface still as glass as he looked into it._

_Harry stared down at a face that wasn’t his- one that he’d spent months looking at in the pensive, that haunted him since second year, that had easily fooled so many with its strong features and charming grin._

_A very shocked, very transparent Tom Riddle looked back at Harry in the dark waters, disturbed only by the occasional drop from the ceiling. Then the reflection snarled at him, a variant to the horror Harry still felt etched on his face, and suddenly a cold hand shot out of the water and wrapped itself around the wizard’s throat._

_Then he was overwhelmed by flashes of memories- a ruined journal, cruel high pitched laughter over a flash of blinding green light, Riddle spelling words of fire in the air, red eyes like a snake peering at him from over a headstone, a young man twisting a ring in his fingers as he looked into a fire-_

_‘It’s called, as I understand it… a_ _Horcrux…’_

* * *

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, sucking in a desperate breath as a sharp shiver ran down his spine.

“ _Sshhiitt_ ,” he hissed, running a shaky hand through sweat slick hair- the lightning scar on his forehead pricked subtly, _ominously_ beneath his skin. Maybe it was time to consider that there might be a _little_ bit more to these dreams than he wanted to admit.

The teen had a hard time going back to sleep that night- he’d stayed up writing down every detail of the dream he could remember before it slipped away with the waning moon.  When the sun rose, staining their room with blinding shades of reds and orange, the teen flinched himself awake once more at the hoarse whine of Neville realizing he’d tangled himself in his sheets _again_.

Harry yawned like a lion, stretching his tired limbs in his bed- a pen and notebook slipped from his chest and onto the floor with a soft _thud_ \- before roughly scrubbing at his stinging eyes. Though he was relieved to find he’d managed to fall back to sleep, the young wizard could feel deep in his bones that it hadn’t been nearly enough. It was going to be another long day ahead, which meant extra provisions would be needed to keep awake. Falling asleep with Mcgonagall was bad enough, and he’d gotten off _way_ easier that he should have, but if he were to accidentally nodded off in _Snape’s_ class- well, detention certainly would be the least of his worries.

Still, he just had to make it through this _one_ day, and then it would be the weekend. The castle would be nearly empty with all the upperclassmen going to Hogsmeade, so Harry might actually have a chance to catch up on some of the sleep he’d been deprived of. He had planned on trying his luck with Slughorn again, but in this condition, he doubted he’d do any better than the last time. So, sleep became the new game plan for the weekend. At least, if fate would be so kind, which Harry never counted on it to be.

Ron and Hermione met him in the Great Hall not long after his first cup of coffee. The red haired boy grunted a sleepy thanks at the mug Harry had prepared for him while Hermione started right in on her orange juice.

“Sleep alright, Harry?” She asked in an overly casual tone as she grabbed a piece of toast.

Harry had anticipated this like one would anticipate the coming day, but still he couldn’t deny the pang of annoyance that shot through him.

“Not at all,” he replied truthfully, setting his cup down with a grimace- he’d asked the elves to make it extra strong, knowing he’d need the caffeine, and, boy did they deliver. “I slept like absolute  _shite_.”

The girl across from him looked a little taken aback by his honesty, exchanging a quick look with their counterpart. Then there was a tiny twitch of triumph on her lips as she began buttering her toast in earnest. “Well,” she pressed cautiously, “was there any particular reason _why_?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but silently reminded himself to cut her some slack, she was only trying to help. “Actually, I had the _strangest_ dream.”

Ron snorted at his side, “You? Strange dream? _Never!_ ”

He let out a small breath of laughter, happy that the tension around the trio had finally melted away. “Yeah, _big_ surprise, I know.”

“Well,” Hermione interrupted seriously, leaning across the table as much as she could, “what was it _about_?”

Harry barely had the chance to take a breath before-

“ _Oh Won-Won_!” A shrill voice crooned from the other end of the table.

“Bloody hell,” Ron groaned, “can’t I have just _one_ moment alone!”

Harry shrugged, following Hermione’s lead and grabbing his things. He could already see the headache forming behind her brown eyes, and honestly wanted to leave before he got one himself.

“W-wait!” Ron started in a panic, standing up after them, “You can’t just _leave_ me here!”

“There you are, Won-Won,” Lavender started as she cozzied herself next to him. “Saving some breakfast for me,” she wrapped her arm around his elbow and yanked him back down, positively _glaring_ at Hermione, “how _sweet!_ ”

Surprisingly, Hermione didn’t take the opportunity to correct her on how it was the same _buffett_ that was there _every_ morning, so _of course_ there would be food for her whether or not Ron saved it, which he _didn’t_. Instead, she merely chose to roll her eyes and walk away.

“Sorry, mate.” Harry gave his friend one last pitied look before following the brunette out of the Great Hall.

“Is it _bad_ that I get a sense of satisfaction leaving Won-Won to wallow in the misery of _her_ company?” Hermione asked as they walked.

“He did it to himself, really.” Harry shrugged, “Still, it does seem a bit _cruel_.”

The pair looked at each other and Hermione burst out laughing. “She really is _insufferable_ , isn’t she?”

“No arguments there.”

They walked together in silence, neither indicating their destination, yet somehow ending up in the small sitting area off the stairs where Harry had found her crying just weeks ago. They settled on the soft red cushions beneath the brightly colored windows and Harry pulled out his notebook.

“I wrote down what I could remember,” he explained as he handed it over, “but I can’t guarantee that was _everything_ that happened.”

Hermione examined the pages with the same attentiveness she used for studying, and when she was done, she turned the sheets back over and started again.

“Harry,” she started after about the third time through, “how did you _feel_ when you were dreaming and when you woke up?”

“I don’t know, really-” the raven haired boy explained, curling his knees closer to his chest, “it- it wasn’t like the _other_ dreams I’ve had from Voldemort. It felt- I don’t know- like I wasn’t really _there_ . And I was anxious and angry and confused and so _so cold_.”

“And when you woke up?” the witch inquired. “Was you scar _hurting_ at all?”

“A bit, I guess,” he shrugged, “it was more like an _itch_ , though, rather than burning or needles.” Harry sighed, “I don’t know, Hermione. It isn’t really anything _like_ the dreams I’ve had before, which is why I haven’t felt the need to share them.”

“What made you share this one?”

“I actually _remembered_ it when I woke up and thought maybe you could see something I couldn’t.”

Hermione sighed, an uncertain expression on her face, “I don’t know, Harry. It _does_ kind of just sound like a normal nightmare. I mean, you said it yourself, you’re under _a lot_ of stress right now, it’s bound to take its toll somehow.”

“Yeah,” Harry frowned, torn between relief and disappointment. At least if it were something else, they could _fix_ it and he could actually get some proper rest. “That’s kind of what I figured, too. But how am I supposed to _stop_ it?”

“Well, dreams are meant to _help_ our minds sort through things it can’t throughout the day. Mostly, it’s just replaying the day’s events in another light, but sometimes, especially when the mind is under a lot of stress, dreams become our subconscious’s way of examining the problem.”

“So my subconscious is dealing with my stress by sending me nightmares?”

“It’s more like, the nightmares are a side effect of your subconscious trying to sort through any problems you’re not dealing with.”

“That’s all well and good, but how do I make it _stop_ ? I can’t just keep _not_ sleeping, and I very much _doubt_ Slughorn would be willing to spare some sleeping draught.”

The witch shrugged, “Maybe you should try to _listen_ to what your subconscious is telling you.”

“Do you think that’ll help?”

Hermione looked at him sympathetically, “I don’t know, Harry, but caffeine and concentration charms aren’t going to work forever.”

And, sure enough, she was right. Harry had crashed hardcore in the middle of charms (thankfully his last class) and came very close to setting his notebook on _fire_ . Lucky for him, Hermione had been paying attention and snapped him back to his senses before he could. After that, the young wizard found himself walking back to his dorm in a haze. All he needed was a few minutes, a little cat nap before dinner, and he'd be _fine_!

Harry yawned, hardly remembering to shuck off his bag and robes, pulling loose his tie before falling on top of his bed. He was asleep before his head even hit the pillow.


	2. The Lion, The Snake, and The Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! I know its super early to be posting another chapter, but I wanted to get it up tonight so that I can get a schedule of sorts going. From this point on I'm going to shoot for updating every other Friday since that seems to give me enough free time between each chapter to continue writing ahead, however, I hope you all can understand that life can sometimes get in the way.  
> I also want to take a moment to thank you all so so much for the kudos/comments. I appreciate all the time you chose to spend reading this ♡♡♡♡

_He woke with a start on the same cold green tiles as before. This time, however, he realized as he patted himself down, he was much more solid. The large area was filled with the sounds of his labored breathing and the constant pattering of water on tile as he stood on shaky legs, running his long fingers through dark brown locks. _

_He was_ _awake_ _._

 _He was_ _real_ _._

 _Now he just had to figure out_ _where_ _he was. The young wizard scanned his surroundings- taking in the smooth stone tiles, the tall columns carved into snakes, the palifera of tunnels fanning out on either side of the great room. He slowly turned around, examining the cold white statue of who he recognized as a great man- though he couldn't quite figure out_ _why_ _\- and in front of it lay the decaying corpse of a once beautiful beast. An unplaced_ _fury_ _overcame the boy as he looked at the blackish green flesh hanging off it's massive bones. Someone was going to have to pay for its death._

 _Though the large space felt_ _so_ _familiar_ _, the teen was disheartened to find that_ _still_ _couldn't place it. He was lost,_ _alone_ _, and, honestly, not entirely sure_ _who_ _he was. This was bad. Very very bad._

 _He stormed toward the other end of the room, hoping to find some way out- footsteps echoing with the splashing puddles in his wake. There were a dozen different paths to try, and, surely,_ _one_ _would lead him out. After all, he had to have gotten in_ _somehow_ _._

 _The young wizard was stopped short of the round door by a few feet as though there was an invisible barrier keeping him from moving any further._ _His face twisted into a snarl as he continued trying to push himself through, and when it wouldn't yield, the boy let out an angry yell._

_Suddenly, he felt himself being split in two, as though he was roughly being pulled forward and shoved back at the same time._

_Then Harry was standing beyond the invisible barrier, looking directly at a sixteen year old Tom Riddle who was studying him intently, breaking down his every detail behind those rich,_ _dangerous_ _grey eyes._

 _"Who are you?" Tom demanded in a tone sharp as ice. “_ _Where_ _am I?”_

 _Harry’s heart was beating out of his chest- throat constricting to the point it felt practically impossible to draw a breath. The boy in front of him was_ _exactly_ _as he remembered him all those years ago. His image was_ _flawless_ _, from the crispness of his clothes down to the last wisp of a curled lock hanging over his forehead. The outlines of his being were the only acception to his immaculate image- fuzzy, dull, as though he wasn’t completely_ _there_ _. There was a storm brewing in his eyes, set delicately on his face- as though he was trying to determine whether Harry was worth keeping his mask up for._

_Riddle tilted his head- cocking his jaw and raising his eyebrows- waiting for the other to respond. When Harry didn’t, he decided against the mask- murderous intentions etched into every feature as he marched forward. The barrier slowed him down, but he was still able to reach his hand through. He wrapped it in the collar of Harry’s t-shirt and yanked him forward til they were nearly nose to nose._

_“Are you deaf?” The ghost growled lowly, “Or are you_ _trying_ _to test my patience?”_

_At the close proximity, Harry noticed that there were certain angles where the dull chamber light shone through Riddle’s cold face. He reminded the boy of a ghost with too much color. Then those cold, calculating eyes caught sight of Harry's forehead and narrowed curiously._

_And that's when the green eyed teen seemed to snap back to himself. He_ _hated_ _when people stared at his scar, especially when it was the bastard that had given it to him!_

 _“What makes you think I’d tell you anything,_ _Riddle_ _?” Harry spat, roughly pulling the other's hand away from him. Steadily, he started to realize where he was,_ _what_ _he was in. Hermione had urged him to_ _listen_ _to what his dreams were saying, and it seemed now was his chance._

_The brunet pinched his brows together, confused. “Riddle?”_

_“How about_ _you_ _tell me why you’re here?” Harry demanded with every ounce of authority he could conjure. He needed answers from whatever part of his brain was conjuring this dream from, and he wasn't going to back down until he got them._

 _Tom laughed, the unusually warm sound filling the large space, echoing even down several of the tunnels. “Don’t you_ _think_ _that if I knew that, I wouldn’t have asked_ _you_ _where I was?” He smirked condescendingly, “But, then, I don’t really get the impression you_ _do_ _much thinking, do you,…?”_

_He ended with a slight gap between his lip as if waiting for Harry to fill in his name._

_He didn't. Instead, the raven haired boy set his face sternly. “Why do I keep having these dreams?”_

_“Dreams?” Tom repeated snidely, “You think this is a_ _dream_ _?”_

 _“I_ _know_ _it is.” Harry straightened his back and looked squarely at the other._

_Riddle considered him a moment before breaking into a wide grin._

_“Alright,_ _Sleeping_ _Beauty_ _,” he began slowly, hands folded thoughtfully behind his back as he stalked back toward the other, “if you're_ _so_ _certain,” he stopped right at the edge of the barrier, which had curiously retreated dramatically. Riddle stood nearly chest to chest with Harry, peering down with a smug smile. “Then_ _prove_ _it_ _.”_

 _Harry stood his ground, meeting the other's patronizing stare full on. “And just_ _how_ _do you suppose I should do that?”_

 _“Well, you seem to know_ _where_ _we are,” the taller wizard shrugged, “so maybe you should just ‘wake up’ and check this place in person.”_

_Harry rolled his eyes, convincing himself that the other was just a part of his mind trying to keep him from the truth. “Yeah, and if I do that, I won't be ‘trying to listen to my subconscious’ or whatever. So, no, I’d like to get some answers first, thanks.”_

_“But if_ _I'm_ _your subconscious,” Tom leaned closer, “wouldn't that mean you should listen to_ _me_ _?”_

_Harry glared. “I think if you were my subconscious, you'd at least know my name.”_

_“Well then,” the brunet's mouth broke into a wide grin, “if I'm_ _not_ _a part of your subconscious, how could I be a part of your little ‘_ _dream_ _’?”_

_Harry opened his mouth, but found he didn't have an answer to give._

_Tom continued, mocking confusion with a tilt of his head, “And if I'm_ _not_ _a part of your_ _dream_ _, and you're_ _so_ _certain_ _you're asleep, then how can we be having this conversation?”_

_Harry felt the color go from his cheeks, taking a hesitant step back; the other didn't even try to follow._

_“Face it, Princess,” the serpent drawled dangerously around a sharp grin, “you're not sleeping.”_

* * *

 

ϟ ϟ ϟ ϟ

He woke with a broken gasp, hand desperately clutching at his chest as he sat himself up; it took a few seconds for the teen to catch his breath. The room was dark- save the silver reflection of moonlight peering through the window- and the air was lowly humming with the familiar sounds of the others sleeping.

Harry fell back, looking up at the shadows billowing in the fabric of the four poster, Riddle’s words echoing around his skull. _‘Then_ _prove_ _it_ _._ ’

It was ridiculous, how an empty challenge from the ghost in Harry’s head seemed to fill the teen with prickling anxiety. What on earth did that _mean_ ? What was his subconscious trying to tell him? It definitely had to do with the Chamber of Secrets, but _what_ exactly about it? Why did Harry get the feeling he was missing something _very_ important?

He tired to fixate on the _feelings_ he had in the dream before he and Riddle were split apart. What was he doing again? He was looking for… a way out. After all, he had to have gotten _in_ somehow…

And that was it, wasn’t it? What his subconscious was telling him: there was _another way_ into Hogwarts, a way that _only_ Voldemort would know. He could be sending his Death Eaters there now, and nobody in the school would be all the wiser, not even the headmaster.

Or, a darker thought came into Harry’s mind, maybe Tom Riddle really _was_ waiting down there- a memory gaining strength just as he was four years ago. What if Voldemort had sent another journal to the school to do what he couldn’t. Maybe he’d sent it with Draco and that’s why the Slytherin had been acting so guilty lately- he must have been _helping_ with whatever dark scheme Voldemort had planned. _Of course_! It was so obvious now to Harry.

 _Then again_ , reasoned his conscious (which sounded remarkably like Hermione), _you could be drawing conclusions without any_ _real_ _evidence. Maybe it was _ _just_ _a nightmare._

Harry sighed, knowing that voice in his head was probably right. But still…

 _Still_ , what if it wasn't. Could he really just sit there and wait for another Tom Riddle to be set loose against the people he loved?

The teen took a bracing breath and threw off what little remained of his covers. He was probably overreacting, he knew that, but he still had to _check_ \- had to be _sure_.

Apparently, Harry had wrestled his sweater vest off at some point because it was halfway across the room and his shirt was mostly unbuttoned. He quietly shrugged out of rest of it and pulled on his sweatshirt, then gathered up his shoes and the Marauders Map, threw on his cloak, and tiptoed out of his dorm. Once he made it to the empty common room, Harry sat on the edge of a chair to silently pull his shoes on before stealthily slipping through the portrait.

To his luck, The Fat Lady didn't so much as stir- probably due to the large empty bottle of wine held loosely in her hand. The hallways were, as expected, empty- save Filch patrolling the corridor outside the Ravenclaw tower and Mrs. Norris climbing two flights of stairs just above Harry who was making his way _down_.

The main thing the young wizard was worried about was Myrtle. Well maybe not the _main_ thing- there still was that bit about the possibility of another journal beneath the school- but still, it would be quite a nuisance if the ghost were to catch him sneaking down to the Chamber. He didn't want to imagine the kind of payment she'd demand for her silence, not that she'd even keep it for long.

So when Harry reached the girl's bathroom, he gently pressed his ear against the heavy door. When he didn't immediately hear the muffled sounds of sobbing, he slowly, ever so _carefully_ pushed the door open. Silence was all that greeted him; another lucky strike for the evening. But Harry didn’t want to push that luck, so he cast a quick silencing charm around the dark room.

He pulled his cloak off and stuffed it in the waistband of his pants. Heavy drops from the old plumbing echoed around the cold tile from each sink except for one- its tiny stone snake eyes seemed to be staring right into Harry's as he felt his heart begin to hammer in his throat.

He should not be doing this; he should _wait_ until he at least had backup. Then again, a large part of him doubted either of his friends would be convinced enough to let him go through with it. Besides, this really couldn't wait, it'd be eating at him all night and beyond until he just _checked_ . And that's all he was doing anyway, right? Just _checking_ \- making sure his paranoia wasn't justified.

Nobody could fault him for that, right?

Harry closed his eyes, taking a bracing breath before letting a low hiss escape from his throat.

 **_Open_ **.

As expected, the room was filled with the loud sounds of stone and pipes shifting, revealing the dark hole that beckoned the raven haired teen closer.

 _I_ _really_ _shouldn't be doing this_ , was the last thought Harry had before taking that empty step into darkness.

* * *

 

Now, a large part of Harry wished he _did_ have normal fears- things like the dark or solitude or spiders, snakes, bones, death, etc.. He'd imagine they'd have saved him from a lot of his less thought out endeavours.

Like, for example, finding his way through a labyrinth of pipes beneath the school in the middle of the night, _alone_ , to go to a secret chamber that may or may not be housing Tom Riddle's disembodied memory, all based on anxious ramblings in a nightmare.

Yeah… certainly not one of his brighter plans in hindsight, but, as he began climbing through the rubble from the cave in, Harry knew it was far too late to turn back. Just a quick peak to settle his nerves, then he was done and maybe he'd also put an end to those nightmares.

He carefully made his way through the passage that was made for a much smaller version of himself. When he reached the end, the rocks gave way to his weight and Harry barely had enough time to catch himself. His hands scraped harshly against the sharp rubble, knee coming down _hard_ to break his fall as he twisted to his back.

Harry gasped, chasing the breath that was knocked out of him. His surroundings were blurry in the low light of his wand, which he'd miraculously held on to, though his knuckles were scraped to hell. The teen groaned- the noise bouncing off he cold stone around him- and blindly searched for his glasses.

They were, of course, completely shattered; when he reached for them, he noticed blood trickling from the scrapes on his palm. He silently cursed himself for not bothering to remember the simple healing charm Hermione had used time and time again.

“ _Repairo_ ,” he whispered to the shards of glass hanging from its frame, watching as they stuck back together without so much as a crack. Then he got to his feet with a loud groan when he recognized a wet feeling sticking fabric to his knee as he stretched it out.

“Great,” the young wizard huffed to himself as he carefully prodded at the spot. He winced when his dirty fingers made contact with the ripped skin and came back with a dark stain of blood. “Way to bloody go, Harry.”

It wasn’t as though he was bleeding out, just a really bad scrape, but it was still enough to hobble the teen a bit as he continued forward- roughly wiping the blood from his hands on his already stained pants. When he reached the circular door, Harry froze to the spot.

Anxiety clawed at the boy like a rabid animal, digging its nails into his throat and slowly dragging them down his chest; he wet his dry lips before speaking the secret language of snakes.

 **_Open_ **.

The enchanted carvings obeyed, uncoiling themselves as another made its way around, mechanical locks being undone in its wake.

Harry gripped his wand tightly, raising it in front of him in anticipation as the door swung open. From what the teen could tell as he cautiously stepped through, the Chamber was just as he'd left it, Basilisk corpse and all. His were the only footstep splashing through the large space, but, of course, that wasn't going to be enough for him to let down his guard.

Harry swore he could hear his own heartbeat echoing off the walls while he cautiously surveyed the shadows around each column. This was a _very_ bad idea. He could be ambushed at every angle, and absolutely no one would know!

Still, at least so far, there was no phantom of Tom Riddle waiting to taunt him. That was a plus, right? Maybe it was only a temporary absence, but Harry had learned long ago to count his blessing as they came.

He reached the end of the Chamber, standing in the shadow of the great Basilisk skeleton- decaying skin hanging off a few bones. Once again, as Harry inspected the area, nothing _seemed_ off or even _touched_ in the last four years. There was still even the black stain on the tiles from the diary's ink...which, Harry realized after a moment, was _odd_ . The floor was always damp, so there really was no logical reason the ink should have stained, nonetheless look so _fresh_.

He cautiously approached the strange spot, wand at the ready as he kneeled in front of it. Sharp air was sucked between his teeth at the cool tile pressed against his scraped knee; a bit of blood pooled from the spot and ran away from him as if being sucked in by a drain.

Harry watched as his blood mingled with the remnant ink, reacting to it like salt to boiling water. The stain became a puddle, slowly bubbling at the surface. The teen quickly switched knees to lean over it, scar prickling caution the closer he got.

Then the bubbling stopped and the small pool of black became smooth as glass. Curiosity got the better of the boy as he gently put his open palm beside for better leverage to look in its center- unaware of its scraps of blood branching over the tile and into the ink. Harry could make out a shadowy reflection in the perfectly still liquid; an eerily familiar spike of fear shot down his spine when he realized it wasn't his own.

The teen pushed himself back, scooting away from the strange puddle in a hurry before scrambling to his feet. He pointed his wand at the black spot with a shaky hand.

“ _Aguamenti_!”

A steady stream of water shot out its end, washing away the ink as though it were nothing unusual. Harry sighed while he watched it spread across the tile in different directions.

Then, before he could let himself feel too relieved, a crisp breeze ruffled through the teen’s raven hair from behind. Harry whipped around, defensive spell at the tip of his tongue, but there was nothing there. His heart hammered in his throat, constricting his airway.

Another sharp whistle of wind stirred just out of his line of vision. Wide emerald eyes scanned the empty area as he turned full circle, dropping when he noticed the thick black liquid pooling back together around his heel. Harry made to jump back again, wand raised when suddenly his head felt like it was going to be split in two

“ _Aah!_ ” Harry howled, crumbling forward as his scar blinded him with pain. His knees sank into the ink like liquid on the hard tile, his wand hand fell into the pool, too, supporting his weight as the other clutched desperately at his forehead. Then, Harry felt himself burning from the inside out as though electric shocks were ceaselessly striking through his every nerve. Behind his eyes, all he could see was blinding white light while he screamed in agony.

This was it, he was certain of it. He'd never experienced this kind of pain before- not through the cruciatus curse not even when Voldemort had used him like a puppet to taunt Dumbledore.

Death was imminent- he could _feel_ it's icy grip encroaching on his consciousness. And Harry found he didn't mind the realization, if anything he'd just wanted it to to _hurry_ the hell up and save him from this _torture_. However, just as Harry felt the bitter cold darkness pushing its way through his body, the pain stopped.

The freezing air of the Chamber stung against Harry's searing skin, and the last thing the raven haired wizard registered before giving into the heavy _pull_ on his mind and body, was a sharp gasp stuttering within a solid chest beneath his hand.

Then all faded to black.

 


	3. Resurrection

ϟ ϟ ϟ ϟ

It was a slow slip back into consciousness as a soft light gradually came into focus behind his eyelids. Harry took a deep breath, blinking the bright hospital wing into life. Automatically, his hand tried groping for his glasses on the small table beside him, but was slowed down by a harsh sting in the center of his palm. He raised the bandaged hand to his face, brow furrowed as he turned it over, trying to recall the events leading to his current state. 

In his hazy memory, he could see the serpentine columns winding to the tall ceiling of the Chamber. But  _ why _ had he been down there? He'd been looking for something- no, some _ one _ . And just like that, the fog of waking consciousness cleared. Harry remembered the dream that had taunted him into checking the Chamber, he remembered falling in the tunnel, the black puddle, the whispering breezes, the  _ pain _ , and the vague recognition of a solid body beneath him as he collapsed into darkness. Something had happened, something to do with Voldemort, which meant it had to have been something  _ bad _ .

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore’s soft voice started as he stepped out of a curtained bed across the room, “wonderful to see you awake!” 

“Professor,” the boy sat himself straighter in bed, adjusting his glasses, “what happened? How did I get here? All I remember is something happening in The Chamber, and-”

Dumbledore held up a hand, a patient smile on his face. “Harry, try not to get worked up,” his blue eyes twinkled in the daylight streaming through the high windows, “we don’t want to undo all of Madam Pomfrey's hard work, do we?”

The headmaster waved his wand, moving the pillows upright to support Harry as he relaxed back. 

“Now,” Dumbledore started, calmly sitting in the seat beside Harry’s bed, “perhaps we should start with why on earth you were down there in the first place.” 

So the teen told him- about the dreams, the paranoia, Riddle’s ghost- everything. Dumbledore listened quietly, bright eyes hanging onto every word, bearing into Harry as if waiting to catch a glimpse of hesitation in his story. When he was finished, the headmaster nodded thoughtfully, but otherwise remained silent.

“Professor,” Harry started anxiously, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner, but the dreams didn’t  _ feel _ the same as before so I thought-”

“Harry, you needn’t apologize, I understand. Though,” the elder sighed, “in the future, I hope you won’t feel the need to keep anything from me. Even if the issue seems insignificant, my door is always open.” 

The teen nodded, shame churned in his stomach and seemed to be pulsing through his body. “I will, Professor.” 

“Good.” Dumbledore clapped his hands together with a smile. “Now, regarding what happened after you lost consciousness in The Chamber, allow me to perhaps illuminate you. Your friends, naturally, were worried when they woke to find you missing. Miss Granger went to Professor Mcgonagall, who came to me right away, and I simply asked Fawkes to aid our search. Next thing any of us knew, you were found on my balcony beside a pile of ash. As for what might have happened  _ in _ The Chamber before you were found… well, Harry, I’m afraid I must be quite unfair and ask you not to worry about the rest for the time being.”

“But sir-”

“Only,” the elder held up his hand once more, “until I can try to make sense of things myself. But I promise you, Harry, you will be the first to be filled in on the details when that happens.” 

Harry bit back his objection. This was Dumbledore, after all, and the teen knew that if the headmaster could give him an answer, he would. Even though Harry couldn’t understand the reasoning, even if he felt he  _ deserved _ some kind of explanation, he just had to  _ trust _ the man. If he couldn’t do that after everything Dumbledore had done for him- had trusted him with- then what kind of person would that make him? 

Harry nodded despite himself and watched relief flood the older man’s face. Dumbledore patted his arm as he stood. “Thank you for trusting me, Harry.”

“Ah, Mr. Potter!” Madam Pomfrey greeted as she emerged from the curtain across from them and headed over. "Welcome back! Now, I trust,” she started as she examined the Harry, “that the headmaster has been reprimanding you for your recklessness.”

“Oh of course, Poppy, most thoroughly!” Dumbledore grinned merrily, shooting Harry a quick wink. 

"Mhm…"

"May I inquire about our other patient?"

"Oh, w-well..." the witch glanced at Harry nervously before clearing her throat. "That is, he should be waking any moment now."

"Wonderful!" The headmaster cheered, though Harry noticed an unfamiliar sharpness to his eyes. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to fetch Horace. Harry," the twinkle was back in his gaze, "I am glad to see you're feeling better.”

The witch watched nervously as Dumbledore swept out of the room before sighing and turning back to Harry. 

"Madam Pomfrey," Harry started curiously, "who exactly  _ is _ over there?"

"Hm? Oh, never you mind, dear!" She smiled, subtly stepping in front of Harry's view of the curtain. She held his shoulders at arms length as she looked him over a final time. "Well, Mr. Potter, you are right as rain and really should be heading back to your classes.”

Harry frowned as he was half pulled/ half guided to his feet. "Isn't it still the weekend?"

"Back to your dormitory, then."

"Wait, Madam Pomfrey," he started raising his injured hand. “What about this?”

“Oh yes,” Madam Pomfrey squeaked nervously, “you need to keep that on until it’s fully healed.” She then shoved a pile of folded clothes into his arms. “No time to change, I’m afraid.”

Now, in all his time at Hogwarts, Harry had never seen anyone leave the hospital wing with so much as a bandaid (except Malfoy after the Buckbeak incident, but that was merely a pathetic call for attention), yet he was being asked to leave with his hand still fully wrapped. “Why-” 

A loud groan from behind the curtain interrupted, and Madam Pomfrey jumped with her hand flying to her heart. Harry craned his neck for a view through the small crack in the curtains.

“Out you go, dear!” She sang as she began directing Harry toward the door. 

“Wait-”

“And do  _ try _ to keep out of trouble! I'd rather not have to mend you again,” the woman all but pushed him through the doors, “am I understood, Mr. Potter.”

“I’ll try my best.”  He replied absently, still doing what he could to peer around her. He heard her huff indignantly before the doors were closed in his face. The center of his wrapped palm stung sharply then, causing Harry to wince loudly as he carefully examined the bandage. There was something strangely familiar about the pain, albeit out of place, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. The sensation faded and Harry, having no other viable option, shook his head and made his way to his room. 

§ § § §

Time has a habit of slipping by inconsistently- either as drops from a leaky faucet or a current from an open dam- too much all at once or not even enough to be certain it’s happening. Something is either real or fake, alive or dead, aware of the ticking of the clock or indifferent to it. And for the past three and a half years, Tom spent his existence in constant flux between each contradiction. Though, at some point in the last six months, time had become something tangible, something he was part of- he became sentient, no longer flickering between the lines. 

It started with a jolt of power- lightning striking a rod- and then he simply  _ was _ . And he supposed he always had been, though, for all intents and purposes, he could not remember what. There were glimpses, every now and again, images he didn’t understand from a life he wasn’t sure had been his. 

Then came the boy. He’d just appeared one hour while Tom was doing nothing in particular- simply existing. And the boy  _ saw _ him,  _ was _ him on several occasions, making Tom realize after all this time that he was, in fact, human. Or, rather, he had been before. 

He became obsessed with finding out more-  _ becoming _ more- that he began testing the boundaries of his own existence. Tom thought about the other boy constantly, trying to simply  _ will _ him into being. After all, he wasn’t quite certain the other was anything but an extension of his old self trying to come back. 

That was, until the last time, when the boy  _ spoke _ to him, gave him a name: Riddle. It wasn’t complete, he could tell that much, but it gave Tom some sort of validation for his being. Still, what surprised the brunet most was how  _ he spoke back _ . He’d had a conversation with the other teen as though he had known how to all the time. He had a body, hands that weren’t quite solid, but more real than ever before. Tom didn’t know what was happening, but he knew it was because of the boy. He had been growing, gaining strength more and more every time the other visited, and it was never enough. The stranger would fade and Tom would wake up behind his black window, so much less than a ghost in a cold chamber he could only ever see the ceiling of. 

But, of course, that all changed when the boy of his imagination came stumbling into his space. This time, he didn’t see Tom-  _ couldn’t _ . It was curious. The boy was bleeding, his clothes disheveled, glasses cracked, hair sticking out in all directions. He was real. Fully, undeniably  _ real _ . And he was completely ignorant to the other stalking  his every anxious move. 

In the end, Tom really hadn’t meant for anything to happen, per say, he just wanted to be seen by those brilliant green eyes once again. He thought that if he could just get the other's attention, just  _ touch  _ him, then the teen could validate his existence once and for all. He tried shouting, moving, but he was trapped, as always beneath the black pool he’d only ever known. Tom had just about given up when something incredible happened. The boy had come closer, knelt down, and then they were finally eye to eye. And Tom began to  _ feel  _ something feeding his strength. He smiled and the boy jumped back, but whatever he had done was enough. Tom was moving with the pool, following the panicking boy clutching at his head. He fell to the cold tiles, both hand splashing on the surface of Tom’s prison. 

And he thought,  _ this is my chance _ . To prove he was free, he was  _ alive _ . Tom reached out his hand and flattened his palm against his side of the pool. Then finally, after all the years looking up, trapped, alone, Tom felt the window of the inky prison shatter. He felt the other’s soft hand pressing into his own and heard the boy scream in pain as a hot electric shock rocked through them both. 

The next thing Tom knew, he could feel  _ his _ body sinking into a soft,  _ warm _ cushion. He could see the light behind his eyelids as he gained awareness. He curled his fingers into soft sheets, just to prove he could. Yet, even though he found himself solid- even though he could feel his chest expanding and contracting, his heart pulsing life through his very  _ real _ body- Tom couldn’t pull himself from the deepest dregs of a long overdue rest. 

That was until a sharp sting through his hand jarred him into consciousness. His eyes were sensitive, unaccustomed to the bright lights that welcomed this new him into the world. Tom groaned loudly, clenching them tightly again as his ears picked up on voices just beyond the tiny space he found himself in. They were too quiet, too rushed for him to hang onto any one word before being cut off by an echoing  _ slam _ . 

Tom took a bracing breath and opened his eyes once more, forcing them to adjust to the brightness of the vaguely familiar space. He propped himself up on tired limbs that protested each movement. He had finally pushed himself to sit up when the curtains in front of his bed were whipped aside to reveal a nervous looking woman in a long red dress covered by a stark white apron, greying brown hair was hidden beneath a white bonnet. She was certainly a stranger, yet, she somewhat reminded him of the matron from the orphanage. 

_ Orphanage? _ Tom questioned, the thought taking him off guard. Just further proof of the life he must have led before. 

“Ello,” Tom tried. Though his voice was rough, thin and unused, the woman seemed to understand because she returned the greeting with a small, albeit tense nod. 

"An arm, if you would." The woman directed curtly and Tom complied. She pressed the cold end of a stethoscope to his wrist, her lips moving silently as she counted. 

The teen cleared his throat, sitting himself straighter as the matron began tucking the scope back into her apron. “Pardon, where I am?” 

"Hm?" The woman looked at him as though she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. "Oh, yes, where..." she took a deep breath and flattened her apron. "Well," She began mumbling to herself, "I suppose there's no harm in saying..." she cleared her throat, but kept her eyes from settling on Tom's face, "You are in the hospital wing."

"Hospital wing,  _ where _ ?" the brunet pressed. Just then the room groaned with the motion of the heavy door. 

"Ah, headmaster," the woman started merrily before disappearing on the other side of the curtains, "perfect timing."

_ Headmaster? _ So he was at a school? Boarding school, if he had to guess, simple based on the grandness of the small bit he could see.

“Really, Albus,” a croaky man began, his voice made the nerves in Tom’s chest continue to unwind, “what could possibly be so important as to drag me out of my chambers this early.”

“You’ll see soon enough, my friend,” another voice replied. However, the familiarity of it had the opposite effect of the other’s on the teen, he felt his face fall and heart begin to race. 

“Headmaster,” the matron started, but her voice dropped to something unintelligible. 

“Who’s awake?” the first man asked loudly before immediately being shushed. 

There was more hurried whispers beyond Tom's hearing, then the second suggested calmly,  “Then, let’s not keep him waiting.”

Tom quickly adjusted the pillows behind his back to leisurely lean on. After all, despite the thudding of his heart, he didn’t want to give the strangers the impression he was nervous. There was no reason he should be the nervous one, he just wanted answers- needed, nay,  _ deserved _ them. Where was he? How did he get there? Did they know what he was before? Did they know  _ who  _ he was before that? And now? What were they going to do with him?

The matron was the first to come into view, though she stepped back to allow room for the others. The next one to peak his head around the curtains was a plump man sporting a comical walrus mustache. Suddenly, his name was jumped to the very tip of Tom's tongue, but the man- suddenly wide eyed and incredibly pale- collapsed before he had a chance to open his mouth. 

"Oh goodness!" the woman threw her hands in the air with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, "what a drama king."

A heavy sigh responded, "I had a feeling this would happen."

Once again, Tom recoiled a bit at the man's gentle drawl. Something about it began to stir memories at the frayed edges of his mind- feelings of distrust and anger. A part of him considered closing his eyes again and pretending he was asleep. 

But then the most curious thing caught his attention: the matron pulled a wand from her apron, and with a switch of her wrist, the large man began to lift off the floor. Tom was surprised to find that he was not surprised at all. Some of the jumbled pieces of his memories began fitting together. 

He had been a student at a wizarding school: Hogwarts, the name came to him. The man that had fainted was his professor- though, of  _ what _ exactly, Tom couldn't recall. 

As for the second man, Tom could clearly picture bright knowing eyes peering at him above half-moon spectacles. The name rose to his tongue the moment the curtain was pulled wider. 

"Professor Dumbledore," Tom started through a barely concealed sneer as he took in the other's appearance- the longer beard, the deep lines carved around his eyes and mouth- he frowned, "you're looking more  _ ancient  _ than usual."

"Ah, Tom," Dumbledore started, that annoying twinkle lighting his bright eyes as he smiled serenely, "delightful as ever."

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO! Welcome to the current end! I do hope you enjoyed getting here, and I sincerely thank you for taking the time to do so!  
> Also, please please don't feel shy to tell me what you think/like/dislike/etc.  
> I am always down for some feedback!
> 
> *Tentatively updates every other Friday (assuming life doesn't get in the way too much)


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